


Dreams And Reality Don't Match (Except For Istanbul)

by griners



Category: Football RPF, gerlonso - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 11:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/griners/pseuds/griners
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 9th April, 2013, Xabi Alonso can't play in Istanbul because of suspension. Here, it's a little different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams And Reality Don't Match (Except For Istanbul)

**Author's Note:**

> My attempt at some canon???? Idk man enjoy oki?

_2 nd April 2013_

The game ends and he breathes again. He knows he’s probably walking into a lecture, grasping onto the last threads of reason to justify his actions- but behind that reason lay his true motivations, and the time to run away from them is slowly wearing out. Xabi knows he’s gonna get an ear full for not getting a card and running the risk of not playing in the semi-finals, but fuck it, he thinks, they could very well lose control on the second leg and need him desperately.

Yes, he continues, that’s completely reasonable.

Except maybe, the urge to play in Istanbul is just too strong.

(...)

_26 th May 2005_

“I wanna play here again.”

“Was last night not enough?” Xabi laughed, holding the door open for Steven to go through.

“It was mor’ than enough,” Steven grins, and it’s so big and so bright that Xabi feels his heart swell a bit. “But I want to play here again. In tha’ stadium. I’m tellin’ ye mate, miracles happen there, miracles.”

Xabi thinks, yes, they do.

(...)

_8 th April 2013_

Xabi runs his thumb across the screen on his phone. He wants to press the green button on the left and has the stupid urge to call just to say _Hi, I’m landing in Istanbul, remember that city?_ and then laugh it off like it was just a joke and this city wouldn’t always be in his heart.

He looks out the airplane window and all he can hear is noise, in the distance, unrecognizable and yet clear to him in the silenced quiet. It’s a crowd, it’s the cheers, it’s the belief.

It’s a night of magic forever present on the warm atmosphere.

The grass, the freshness, the earthy taste, scent, the exhaustion, the rasp on his lungs, the screams ripped from him. He can hear- he can taste he can see- it all.

And as he feels the plane hitting solid ground, he thinks, _we’re back_.

Except there’s no _we_ anymore. Not the one he meant, anyway.

(...)

_Game day (9 th April 2013 (unnecessary))_

Mourinho doesn’t put him in the starting eleven. Xabi fears he might have seen his legs shake slightly a few hours back or pick up on the small moments in practice where he seemed to be in another time, another place, but then realizes that’s stupid because if Mourinho has noticed any of those he would have talked to him and made sure (one way or another, whatever it took) he was ready for the game.

And he was.

It’s just.

This is Istanbul.

Xabi exhales through his nose, stucks his hands in his pockets because the air is getting chilly. He thinks about the last time he was here and he thinks about how it was all so perfect and unbelievable and thinks about how he wishes this night won’t ruin his love for this place. He thinks about it all until the whistle blows and then the only thing he can think of is the swish of the ball as it bounces from side to side and the tightening in his throat that hasn’t gone away since they left Madrid.

(His phone buzzes on the fifteenth minute.)

Twenty minutes haven’t even passed and there’s an attempt from Galatasaray (God, he’s nervous) that has their bench speechless for the moment.

Xabi doesn’t check his phone under the pretense he was too focused on the missed attempt to feel it buzzing.

(He does feel it.)

He pretends it doesn’t bother him that he has a pretty good idea of who texted him and pretends his hands don’t start to shake all over again. He fists them and brushes it off as if it was just too cold.

It was 10° C.

(...)

At halftime the weight has lifted somehow and he finds it’s not so hard to breathe anymore. He congrats his team mates and tries not to act too much like they’ve already won the whole thing but then he remembers a night eight years ago and thinks- it was much harder back then.

And then he also thinks- maybe I’m breathing normally because I haven’t checked my phone.

(He felt another buzz on the 34th minute. Faked true focus on the corner someone was about to take.)

He stays out of the dressing room, leans against the wall, closes his eyes for a brief moment. Then he brings his phone up to level with his eyes and _2 new messages_ stares back at him.

         

          _From: Mother_

_Buena suerte hijo._

Xabi frowns, texts back a quick thanks (when did his mother learn to use a phone anyway), and moves on to the next one (he tries to convince himself he’s scared to read it as opposite to happy)(he almost succeeds too).

         

          _From: Nagore_

_You’ll make it, love you <3_

Xabi’s heart skips a beat.

It’s not from him.

(...)

As Xabi comes out of the tunnel for the second half, he feels numb. There’s a heaviness to his limbs and a pressing on the front of his head and he tells himself he left his phone in the dressing room because he wanted to pay more attention to the game.

(As. If.)

On the 57th minute their bench goes quiet again. A few thousand miles away, there’s a grimace and someone picks up their phone, stares for a second before writing and hitting send without leaving any time for regrets.

This time, Xabi really doesn’t feel the buzz.

(He’s too worried- because he fears there are more goals to come)

(...)

_89 th minute_

Xabi laughs. He actually laughs. A low, reserved (sarcastic; ironic) chuckle, muffled by his jacket that rumbles through his whole body. And then comes the wave of dread.

He told them before they entered the stadium. He told them before they landed. He’s been telling them for 4 years.

_Miracles happen in Istanbul._

Later, he thinks that realization would have been more appropriate for the 92nd minute.

In between, his hand goes into his pocket, before he curses and shakes his head- the phone isn’t there.

(And he tells himself he wasn’t reaching for it.)

(...)

_6 th June 2006_

“Do ye want to go somewhere?”

Xabi huffs into the pillow, turning his head to the side to look at Stevie. He’s covered in sweat and his breathing isn’t quite even yet and his skin itches at the sight. “Now?”

Stevie laughs, his chest going up and down in a motion he’s already memorized, the sound disintegrating into the freshness of the night. “No. I mean like- somewhere we can escape, ye know?”

Xabi blinks, stares at Stevie for a second before burying his head in the pillow again. He knows all too well.

(...)

There are hugs and cheers and Xabi wants to roll his eyes at the expression on some of his team mates’ faces- something like hey we’re gonna get our butts kicked by Mourinho care to join us?

He’ll pass.

He runs to the locker rooms quickly to change and leave before Mourinho comes by. He’s in no mood for lectures right now and he can just take a shower back at the hotel.

Except.

Mourinho’s there before he knows it and his face is not a pleasant one at all and he looks like he’s gonna blow up if he doesn’t say something soon; and Xabi’s left to widen his eyes at his phone because- fuck, fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck-

“Sit down, all of you.” Mourinho fumes, and everyone sits so fast it’s like they’ve been stung by a bee.

They’re halfway through the bashing and trashing (probably, Xabi wasn’t paying attention) when Álvaro nudged him with his elbow, frowning. “What are you looking at?”

Xabi blushes a deep shade of crimson red and pockets his phone, clearing his throat. “Uhm. Nothing.”

He shakes his head three times and the man next to him laughs- and he thinks maybe, just maybe (it’s very likely) Álvaro knows perfectly well what he’s been looking at. But the man doesn’t say a word, and Xabi replays the text in his head and blushes even deeper.

_Don’t celebrate the Liverpool way._

And he remembers a night- a long ago night- lost in yells and tears, where there had been softness contrasting with the bittersweet feeling of tiredness and winning, soft lips and torn, blissful smiles and- Stevie, Stevie Stevie Stevie-

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, and clutches his phone in his clenched hand.

(...)

“Ye didn’t play.”

“I did not.”

“Are ye upset about it?”

Xabi sighs, rubs a hand across his face, “We’re through. That’s all that matters.”

There’s a beat of silence, where longing hits him like a slap and Xabi bites the inside of his cheek and tries to talk without feeling like something’s missing and the pressure of the air filling the empty space is slowly rising. He’s about to say- he doesn’t really know, but maybe ask how Steven is and what he’s been up to (stupid question, his brain isn’t working right now) because the quiet is consuming and suffocating but then-

“Is it still as magical as before?”

Steven’s voice is softer and it’s gentler and Xabi can read dreams and hopes in his voice, can see them in a mirror in the rare moments he lets the emotion climb to exposure.

He looks up at the ceiling, thinks he’s seeing red, says, “Yes, Steven. It’s still as magical as before.”

He’s talking about Istanbul, yes. And maybe something else.


End file.
